


To See You in the Mirror

by Blood_Stained_Fingers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark-ish, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gender Identity, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Horcruxes, Identity, Imprisonment, Introspection, M/M, Machiavellianism, Manipulation, Obsession, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blood_Stained_Fingers/pseuds/Blood_Stained_Fingers
Summary: Harry had never appreciated was how a 55-year-old male soul would influence to a 15-month old’s – of either sex. Souls were tricky magic, contentious even to wizards. But that shard, that tiny piece of soul; mute and not something Harry could ever detect or feel or understand as being sentiment, had been from an adult. Placed in a baby. A grown man with ideals and opinions of his own.They both have a desperate need for attention. He to be seen by all, her to be seen by him.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 57
Kudos: 356





	1. Chapter 1

Horcruxes cause changes to their hosts.

Naturally.

Magic that dark leaves an indelible impression on whatever it touches.

When the locket was finally destroyed, it changed. Instantly. Beyond just the massive crack it had from when the sword of Gryffindor had struck it brutally.

Harry thought it looked as if a sheen of grease had been smeared away from the gold with the removal of the soul piece. The metal seemed cleaner, brighter.

It was still ugly and gaudy - obscenely so - in Harry’s opinion, but she could see it’s worth. The gems glinted in the little light the night provided, as bright as the rubies on the sword. Harry could see what the original could have looked like.

It was well-made and expensive.

Maybe… maybe beautiful in its own way.

She looked over to Ron, sitting on the forest floor and gasping out great heaving breaths into the cold winter night. Leaf litter stuck up his clothes, wet hair cow licked across his forehead. He was staring back at her in a tremulous fashion.

Harry nodded to him, keeping her breath steady, “It’s gone,” she rasped, hoarsely through the bruising around her throat. She brushed a trembling hand under her eyes and then her nose.

Inside, something was wailing in horror and shock. It’s her, she knows. She deserved those bruises for helping to destroy the locket.

Damaged the jewellery may be, but it looked so clean now. Harry’s fingers touched the rapidly cooling metal, missing the dull heat that used to permeate from it, the familiar vibration of _life_ inside it.

Her shirt was sticking to her still wet back, the material pulling uncomfortably as she tightened her fingers about the chain, pulling it up and closer to her face. _What would happen to Harry once the piece within was destroyed?_

#

Harry was an odd child. And not just due to her being magical.

Harry had never appreciated was how a 55-year-old male soul would influence a 15-month old’s – of either sex. Souls were tricky magic, contentious even to wizards. Harry knew they debated about in muggle science and religion. Did they even exist?

Horcruxes seemed to confirm them. From a magical standpoint, at least.

And Harry had never even been aware of the piece within her. Bar from her scar hurting every now and again, and then _all the time_ when Voldemort returned, Harry had never been aware that there was another presence within.

Once the conclusion had come to her awareness, she had wanted to dismiss it. Though she knew she couldn’t. How else could she explain the parseltongue? The connection between Voldemort and her own mind? Their ever-increasing similarities?

And not just circumstantial similarities like being half-bloods or orphans…but characteristics and attitudes.

The reflection of him in her?

How could it be? Harry Potter was her own person. She had a dizzying amount of confidence in that. Arrogance even.

She stood for the opposite of everything Voldemort did.

No way had she been shaped by him, influenced by him.

But that shard, that tiny piece of soul; mute and not something Harry could ever detect or feel or understand as being sentiment, had been from an adult. Placed in a baby. A grown man with ideals and opinions of his own.

And Harry, all of 15-months old? Well, she had the beginnings of a personality and she liked mummy and daddy and padfoot and bubbles and being tickled and flying…but as for most other things? Well, everyone grows into them. They’re shaped and defined by environments and the people children are exposed to.

Harry would look back on what she could remember of her childhood and consider it that she arrived at the Dursley’s surprisingly…pre-determined.

She already was a lot of things. Beyond what a child of her age should have been.

What happened to her at the Dursley’s mattered, the neglect and the abuse had hurt her, but it hadn’t hurt in the way it should hurt a young, developing child.

Harry wasn’t exposed to positivity at the Dursleys growing up. She was told to keep to herself, do her chores and keep out of the way.

The only words from adults directed to her were orders. The only words from children were mean.

It hurt in the way of being forced to suffer living with people you considered beneath you. Harry would later label it as an affront to her dignity.

She had read about other cases years later, of children neglected and ignored. They developed very differently from Harry.

But, of course, she was different. She was _special._

Harry was encouraged in the basics, as for the Dursley’s to avoid more embarrassment than necessary (a niece that couldn’t _read or write_? _Imagine the scandal!_ ) but as for character formation?

That was left completely to Harry.

Harry was a little girl, unable to be browbeaten by her guardians. She had the assurance and confidence to know what was right and what was wrong, and _why_ it was.

She had the proclivity to avoid some of the more childish troupes that her peers fell into. Harry was quiet and withdrawn, preferring the company of books to the company of her peer’s (though she had no friends, so that made sense) but she had a patience that belied her age.

Harry Potter was unshakable, exuding a confidence that normally only came from life experience.

Mrs Figg would smile down at her, returning to her the Dursley’s covered in cat fur after a boring day of being babysat. “Harry’s an old soul,” she would say. Petunia would smile brittlely at that, sharply jerking her head for Harry to get in.

And that was only the start.

Harry had always been a tomboy, much to Petunia’s despair. It was enough that she had been loaded with Lily’s daughter, who was already a freak, but she also acted more like a little boy than a little girl – making it all even more unbearable.

Petunia could not bear Harry’s unruly hair, wild and scruffy as it was. It may have been better if left to grow out, but Petunia also did not have the patience to detangle and comb long hair, especially from a girl who was quite happy to come back covered in mud and bruises.

So, it was kept short.

Harry liked it short. She preferred it that way. She knew how to deal with short hair and make it somewhat presentable, even with the unskilled, uncoordinated hands of a youth. Harry had had a preferred hairstyle before even experimenting with her own hair.

It didn’t settle or look right, however. The hair was wrong. Wild. Untameable. She did not have experience in hair that didn’t just comb into place.

The other girls thought she looked boyish, and at her young age, perhaps she did a little.

Long hair was for _girls_. Short hair was for boys. That is just how it was. Girls wore skirts and dresses. Boys wore trousers and shorts.

“Harry, are you a little girl or a little boy?” a teacher had once asked, trying to coerce or shame a 6 year old Harry into behaving properly.

Harry had had to think about it for a moment. She remembered the profound confusion at that question. Gender identity at that age is so flimsy.

Harry was a girl - she knew that. She was told off enough times for not behaving like one.

She would rather be a boy. It would be better; easier, less challenges, less inherent biases. But she’s not. And that was fine.

Short hair was practical. Trousers were practical. She did not want to wear a skirt.

And that was _fine._

She could do whatever she liked. The opinion of the sheep did not affect how she conducted herself.

#

It was as Harry got older that she noticed the differences even more, as the girls in her dorm liked their pretty dresses and make-up and started to take more and more notice of boys.

Even Hermione who didn’t care so much about personal appearance, started to notice boys. She fluttered over Lockhart in second year and then blushed a lot over Krum.

But that never happened for Harry.

She never grew attracted to boys or girls. It shamed her to think it was because she did not think any of them _worthy_. Another part of her knew, she would lose the respect of her male year mates if she was seen to be attainable.

Harry had to be better, she had to be other and above them. If she was just another girl – to anyone, she would lose any of the respect she held.

Quick to take insult, often when none was intended, Harry drew herself a court of boys. They weren’t her peers, didn’t quite know where they stood with her and never made a joke about her being a girl.

She was both one of them and not one of them.

Her lack of social skills not-withstanding, Harry knew how to talk to boys. Girls she knew how to flatter, but not how to relate.

Harry did not have much use for girls, despite being one herself.

It was excused at first by the fact Harry played Quidditch. But even Katie and Angelica dated occasionally. There was a wall around Harry that grew thicker and thicker as she grew older. She was untouchable. One of the boys.

She was a Gryffindor, even though the hat initially offered her Slytherin. Her parent were Gryffindors, her family were Gryffindors and _heritage was important. (It’s all in the blood.)_

Knowledge was more important. Winning was even more important than that.

Harry had never wanted to look pretty. Though she knew what an advantage that would be, to wear the right clothes, to look attractive. She could make people do anything she wanted.

But that also carried inherent vulnerabilities, she was young. She couldn’t protect herself fully. The wrong person may get the wrong idea and then what could she do? One day when she was grown, that could be an option.

There would be war. Even as a witch it was not advantageous to be female if you could not fully protect yourself. Despite her hatred of the woman, there was a grudging admiration for Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry always looked presentable though, always has. Bird’s nest of a hairstyle aside - it was artfully styled to accommodate the mess it liked to stay in.

Her nails were always trim, her uniform never out of place. She always desired above all else to look competent. Competence will get you further than anything else, pretty words and pretty looks have their time and their uses, but she was always turned out to perfection. _I am capable._

And perfection did not come with the use of rollers and hair solutions for Harry. Perfection came through an almost sexless dress code.

She did not wear men’s robes, but her robes were never fitted. She liked suits, clothes that were designed not to show off her body. They hid her figure, extenuated her (increasingly less as she grew older) androgynous face.

It felt comfortable. It felt right.

It never occurred to her what, or who, she was attaining to look like for years.

#

In fifth year, as Harry spent Christmas at Grimmauld Place, Sirius let her have as much free reign of the house as she wanted. Of course, Harry was cautious; especially in a house such as this one but she was also keen to avoid everyone else too. It was unsettling to consider the theory of possession. More for the fact that she could not write it off. It was unpleasant enough that she cast a lot of suspicion around her anyway.

Harry was too different to the expected ideal of what Harry Potter should be.

Harry Potter was too different to the standard of witch expected, or any other teenage girl.

Seamus had once accused her of having a smirk like she was hiding a dick.

Hermione had squawked in offense on her behalf, Harry had been painfully amused and not at all displeased with the assessment.

Following Mr Weasley’s attack, she now felt their scrutiny more than ever. She wasn’t one to hide but finding somewhere peaceful away from them all was okay. Harry didn’t expect to be rummaging through photo albums, yet she found herself immersed in them, sitting on the floor of some dark room tucked away from everyone else bar Sirius.

Two generations of death eaters and blood-purists from babes to young adults.

Alphard, Cygnus, Orion, Walburga, Narcissa, Regulus and Bellatrix…

They were all there, some of photos had been completely burnt, scorched or scratched to remove the unsightly members who disagreed with the family creed.

Harry was bemused to see a photo of what must have been Sirius and Regulus, though Sirius’ face was long gone, with several scratches across the glossy print where someone had evidently tried to remove his hand gesturing ‘wanker’ to the camera, but photo-Sirius kept moving.

Harry smirked picturing his face, turned a 1000-watt smile to him, “That’s just crass, Sirius.”

“Oh, does her ladyship object?”

Harry just laughed and moved onto another album.

She didn’t expect to find Tom Riddle in one of them, in a very old album before Sirius’ time.

In fact, Harry’s so shocked she thought she imagined his face at first.

But no, it was him. A rare school photo.

Of course, no one would know that this was Lord Voldemort as a boy. With a sly look towards Sirius who was drunkenly brooding, Harry leant in closer.

Riddle was in a large group of fellow students, a rotund man in the middle looking jovial. They were all smiling at the camera. They all appeared to be Slytherin’s and Harry felt uncharitable imaging that their smiles were all a little hooked and mean looking.

Harry spotted the Black straight away, his classic good looks almost a ringer for Sirius’ own. She thought the one on his right must be a Malfoy with his white-blonde hair. Of course, the photo was black and white, so other distinguishing subtler colours were lost.

They all raised their glasses to her.

Harry wondered how this photo came into the Black’s possession. Maybe the one in the photo sent a copy home?

Her eyes traced Riddle’s face obsessively and even though it was only a photo with no inherent personality traits of its own, Harry thought she saw his smile widen, his eyes taking her in just as keenly as she observed him.

She closed the album to break that eye contact with the bastard, wedging her thumb to hold her place.

“Sirius?” she asked, turning to the man, slouched in an armchair. He was staring blankly haunted eyes, and a glass of something lethally strong in his hand. He sat up sharply at her call. “May I have this photo, please?” She opened the book, tapping the page without looking back at it.

“Sure,” he said, with a tired smile. “Anything you want, kiddo.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at the nickname, turning that look of gratefulness on his so he could see it. His demeanour brightened, the bags under his eyes seeming to lighten.

Harry pocketed the photo, enjoying the sight of the party in the photo scrambling away as she folded it in half.

“Now who’s being crass?” Sirius laughed, “Bet they didn’t like that!”

“They can get over it,” Harry cheerfully retorted, then stuck her tongue out.

Sirius seemed delighted that his sour-faced goddaughter could make such an expression. Sirius loved her; she knew but she wondered if he was disappointed in the child he got.

In some senses it made her easier, he knew what to get a girl who dressed and acted more like a boy. Harry’s broom was beloved, the mirrors they used to communicate were cherished, the photos of her family were priceless. He could send her clothes that covered her up as much as he thought appropriate, in a shapeless sack and she wouldn’t care like other rebelling teenage girls.

Sirius didn’t have to warn her off boys, she clearly had no interest in anything like that. He also did not need to warn her away from boys – she was more likely to chin them than put up with any bullshit, and she could see it coming a mile away.

But where James had been fun (cruel, but fun) and Lily had been kind (fun and kind) Harry was not an approximation of them in a way he obviously expected.

Harry had a razor wit, a sharp mind and a terrible temper. But where both Lily and James had run hot with those traits, Harry ran cold.

It took a lot for James and Lily to get really riled up, but Harry took very little. And where her parents would rear up into their anger, Harry settled back down into it, coiled and waiting.

He didn’t know how to deal with her, and to a degree neither she with him. Sirius was meant to be her family, not her friend, but she already was so independent; she did not need a guide, nor did she want a friend. 

Harry watched the brooding man and wondered if she needed him more emotionally, would he feel better?

#

Later in the bathroom, Harry looked at her shorn hair wildly sticking up. Harry has long since styled it as such. It makes her look more like her father, more like artless elegance, than just pure mess.

She smoothed her wet hands through it, fingers creasing through the locks of hair and over them, weighing it all down. Her hair is almost sopping wet when it lies flat and tame.

It won’t last. Not even five minutes if Harry was inclined to time it.

But for now, it lies flat with a small wave to it.

She didn’t know why she was doing this. What was she trying to prove?

Harry picked up the comb. Her instinct goes straight to part it on the left. She ran with it, won’t think on it too long.

She doesn’t think of the photo, now burning a hole in her back pocket. Just lets her hands do the work.

Once she is done, she looks at herself. Hates that she likes what she sees. It feels right. It’s comfortable.

It doesn’t look exactly like Tom Riddle, not really, but there are unmistakable similarities.

Harry and Draco Malfoy could be considered twins for the way they both resemble their father’s so much. But the way Harry holds herself is different to James Potter, she knows.

Her father was casual and cocky. Hers is a practiced confidence, just on the edge of commanding respect, bordering on being defensive.

The way she smiles is different. Cruel, sharp-edged.

The way she moves her head when considering something is different.

It’s Lord Voldemort.

Harry removes her glasses, letting the world settle into a heavy blur and reassess her reflection. _Now_ she looks like Tom Riddle.

Of course, the face is a little too thin, too feminine in the shape of the lips and the cheeks, the delicate jaw. She supposed the Dursley’s withholding food the way they did put her right on track for the attractive waif movement that was dogging the 90s.

But she can see his shape in there, and when she tilts her head in consideration of her image she flashes back to the chamber, with him circling Ginny’s fallen form.

When he had looked at her like she was special ( _hated, but special)_. She feared and hated him, but she could appreciate the desire he always had to be seen as other. As better.

Harry sighed, and ruffled her hair, shaking off the droplets of water. Her hair would return to its naturally buoyant and untameable state as soon as it dried. Snatching a towel from the side, she squeezed the water out of her hair, the way she had seen Romilda Vane do it to not ruin her curly hair.

Harry braced herself against the bath, glowering at the blurry clawed feet. Something vindictive curled within her as she heard the photograph bend and crumble trapped between her and the tub.

#

It’s when Dumbledore told her about horcruxes in her sixth year, when Sirius was gone and she was most craving the adult support she pretended she never needed, that she realised what she was.

The pieces just slot together so easily.

Voldemort had trained her to not rest until she solved a puzzle.

She does not ask Dumbledore, does not give a hint of a suspicion. Harry could not be sure if that pleased or disappointed him.

If she had brought it up, they would have had to discuss the topic of her death; Dumbledore would not have wanted to discuss the impending execution of his student and Harry…well Harry would hate to disappoint him by mentioning her unwillingness to do that.

#

When it is her turn to be on watch that night, after the drama has settled down and Hermione hadn’t cursed Ron into the next millennium, Harry stared down at the broken locket.

She prodded at it with her borrowed wand miserably.

Felt a terrible guilt.

It was not Voldemort that felt concerned about destroying someone’s soul. It is his part of her that doesn’t care. It is the price of doing business, the price of war and he will pursue it relentlessly.

Voldemort would do anything to win. It’s a trait he has given to Harry.

But Harry? The part of Harry untouched by his stain, something purely her feels a terrible anger and sorrow for destroying the horcrux. A misplaced sense of loyalty that Voldemort’s soul had never managed to eek out.

They have a combined fear in regard to what will happen to Harry once the others are destroyed. Harry is a horcrux and for Voldemort to die, so must she.

Of course, the horcrux in Harry isn’t vocal, does not speak. But she knows this fear of death is not from her. She is unwilling to die, but the horcrux has not passed his own paralysing fear to her. Harry does not think her horcrux has a voice, and if he does, he is not inclined to speak with her. Not like the locket.

Bad tempered the evil thing had been, weighing heavily on everyone, to the point of Ron abandoning them and Hermione crying all the time. But it had not weighed on Harry.

It had… _adored_ Harry.

It had blackened her temper bitterly at first, clawing at her mind with its dark claws. Until one bitter night as she lay with it, the heavy body of burning gold sliding to rest in her clavicle, she finally had hissed, “ _Stop! Stop!”_ in angered desperation to it in parseltongue.

The heavy regard of its dark magic receded, shocked, coiled unto itself and away from where it had trapped her in a heady mix.

Then it crooned to her, “ _Who? Who are you?”_ tugging insistently at its chain until she clutched at it. It had positively vibrated at the contact.

And no-one could hear her, nor understand her, so she had whispered, “ _A friend._ ”

It hadn’t known what she was, but it had known enough with its weak sentience that there were not many people who could speak parseltongue. She was either like him or she was blood. It would whisper horrible things to her, teasing and content to have her ears to itself. But it hadn’t hurt her.

Not until she dove into the icy pool, reaching with straining fingers for the damned sword.

And it had felt her betrayal and her grief at doing so, choking her for her treachery.

It was a horcrux and Harry had meant nothing to it, it had probably felt she was a weak link to exploit, something to possess and free itself. But it had liked her.

….and she had destroyed it.

Harry rubbed at the bruises contemplatively, it was getting closer now. She had to decide her fate. It goes against the grain to leave a job half done. Does she commit to destroying them all, herself included?

Harry wondered if Voldemort ever looked at her in those scant moments before battle and truly seen her. Had he ever seen more?

Wondered at her robes, styled so much to his preferences?

Had he seen her confidence as Dumbledore’s influence? The arrogance of her father? The steadfastness of her mother?

Harry Potter’s spine had always, always been her own, but it had been Voldemort’s own hand that had braced against it every time it came close to buckling under pressure.

It was his own confidence that made her stand tall and proud, made her say “anything but Slytherin” and _mean_ it, because once Voldemort made up his mind, there was no changing it.

Did he see?

The way she held her wand, ambidextrous since she could remember (instinctively right-handed, learned left-hand) and toss her head back after a particular show of power.

Did he see?

Harry Potter had learned to be like Voldemort, because she was him. He had made her an old man in a young girl’s body.

Opposite convictions held with just as much strength and dogma as his own.

But now, as Harry looked at the locket, she found herself chilled. Her own death was necessary to finish this war, that was apparent. And there is no way she could survive it.

She had plotted every viable alternative. There was none.

Voldemort feared death.

Harry did not.

But she did not crave it either. Voldemort had given her the drive, the knowledge to wriggle out of any situation by making her run faster, hide, or ultimately bolster her way through.

Harry wasn’t going to let this noose tighten. She couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Harry took the old Slugclub photo out from her mokeskin pouch, opening it again. Lord knows why she kept it.

The whole party eyed the heavy, heavy crease distastefully again, scowling a little at her. It was only a photo, but they were dismayed at the damage she had managed. Those within the image had no personalities like a portrait, they just carried on as if they were still in the moment – these ones now nursed their drinks sourly.

But Harry could swear Tom Riddle saw her. She had caught his attention again.

Not that it should be possible to catch the attention of a photograph in that way. Harry could remember Penelope Clearwater’s photo hiding her blotted nose, regardless of who was looking at her.

Riddle liked to be recognised.

Harry shut her eyes to his smirking face, finger scratching along the edge of the photograph, catching the corner with its thick paper again and again.

The repetitive sound of the slow cording of her roughened skin against the photo was soothing.

There’s a taboo on the name.

So, he had stolen her last act of defiance. Strangled the last of Dumbledore’s influence in the world by not allowing them to even speak the name he had chosen for himself.

The locket sat empty and barren in front of her crossed legs.

Harry had to decide now. It was not in her nature to swim against the tide if there was no reward for doing so.

Harry was all she was due to Voldemort. Her unwanted fame came from him, and even her ability to cope with that fame came from him. The callousness to not care, not truly, for others. The brutality to not aspire to parents who had abandoned her through death – not even the respect to acknowledge that sacrifice for what it was ( _sacrifice, not abandonment…semantics to her. To Riddle. Her parents still weren’t there.)_

The only thing that might have been truly and purely from Harry was the weakness of being incredibly loyal.

Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort had loyalty to no-one but himself.

She opened her eyes, flicked the corner of the photo, making all the caged partiers stumble. Riddle only just spared his drink with an annoyed, basilisk worthy glare at her.

But Harry was Voldemort.

She whispered his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can choose which name she chose to whisper - did she break the taboo or just say Riddle's name?
> 
> I have not written a Harry Potter ff in years, but lockdown has brought out the ol' Potterhead in me. I found myself caught up in the idea of what would be the impact Voldemort's identity being forced to live in a little girl... especially with something like gender identity. 
> 
> I don't see where else this can go, but we are all in lock down so who knows!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, I wasn't going to write anymore for this. But I did. A lot.
> 
> This is heavy going and slow (so much introspection...), but after writing this amount I decided it was going up. I like to think the penultimate scene is worth it. I enjoyed writing that bit at least.

Running.

Harry loved it as much as she loathed it. Great exhales of hot air rushed out of her mouth as she blazed through the forest, the snatchers close on her heels.

She had run from the tent as soon as the cracks of Apparition had sounded. Fortunately, her mokeskin pouch was around her neck, as she dropped the hoarded photo in her hurry to collect the destroyed locket.

“Shit!” she had shouted into the tent, hoping to warn Ron and Hermione without altering the new arrivals that there may be more than one person there, before charging out to distract the snatchers away from the tent.

Harry gasped out the Patronus charm, her weak wand struggling to funnel so much strength until ungainly, her stag leapt out and ran back towards the tent.

“That’s Potter!” One of the grimy men had shrieked. “That’s Potter’s Patronus!”

Success.

All of them had their attentions on her, they did not even pause to see where her Patronus had fled to, probably thinking she was trying to call backup.

Instead she told Ron and Hermione to flee. That she would meet with them as soon as she could.

“Voldemort,” she gasped. “Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort.” A few more cracks but not many. She needed to keep the snatchers attention on her and her alone.

“It’s Potter!” There was the faint call, and the rag-tag group of new enforcers all started to chase her too, sending a few curses her way. Harmless, of course.

She was not their kill.

So scared of their master, they wouldn’t risk harming her in case it would displease him.

Harry could smell Greyback pursuing her, the stench of rotting meat and sweat powerful enough to _precede_ him running. He was the closest and she would rather any other than him catch her, but he loped forward more beast than man on four limbs, like he was made for it.

She could hear his pounding footfalls and then-

Harry slammed into the ground with a breathless cry and a massive wave of scattered leaves. Her teeth chinking together painfully, fortunately missing her tongue as she would have surely cleaved it in two if she had caught it.

Greyback’s weight settled heavily on her back, his rancid breath gusting on her neck as he took her in. “It’s her alright!” He jeered to his fellows, grinding down on her arse as he pawed at her.

“Yes, it’s me! Get your filthy hands of me, you beast,” she bit out, and they all laughed. “Call your master,” she dared as Greyback grabbed a fistful of her short hair and pulled her back until the entirety of her throat was bared to his pleasing.

He leant in close to her pulse sniffing, unable to help himself.

“Greyback. That’s Potter. We need to get ‘er back,” one of the other snatchers said, uncertain and cautious, “You can’t play with that one.”

“Piss of, Scabior,” Greyback snarled, pulling himself and Harry to their feet. “Potter’s a tough little bint, int she?” He shook her a little, grinned down when he saw her bared teeth. “She’d enjoy a bit of rough.” Harry remembered him seeing her after Dumbledore’s death. He had looked transfixed by her covered in blood. “She cut up Jugson with a viciousness that deserves a wolf.”

Harry laughed and snarled at him, feeling his enjoyment and wanting to be sick. She turned her cruel gaze around the gathered snatchers – and she hadn’t realised how many of them there were – what a disgustingly, pathetic group they were too, “Call your master! Or are none of you creatures worthy of carrying the mark?”

There was some disgruntled muttering and shifting from the group. “Between the lot of us, there won’t be enough gold even from Potter’s capture!”

“Yeah!” Someone else called, as he leant on one of the many trees fingering his wand.

“There was a tent with her!” Scabior said, “Probably that mudblood and that bloodtraitor with ‘er. That will get us a hefty sum!” His voice echoed in the forest, and a few of the group looked briefly excited.

“No, there’s not. It’s fucking gone,” Another responded morosely, “We all ran after her, and when we went back it was gone.”

Harry started laughing callously, “Oh dear me.” She sneered. “What’s your precious master going to do to you all now?”

There was a terrible pause, the only sound being leaves stroking one another as they drifted in the wind. Then there were several cracks of Disappartion as some snatchers decided fleeing was the preferable option.

“We’ll get fuck all now!” A female cried, her gauntness suggesting she needed the money.

“Let’s fuck her up!” Someone else offered, pointing to Harry as if their incompetence was her fault.

Greyback’s thick arm came around her waist, “What do you think, Potter? Wanna show us what you’ve been hiding under these boyish clothes?” His dirty hand pushed up her top slightly, his thickened claw-like nails caressing the skin.

Harry trembled, a shudder she couldn’t stop, but she steeled her nerves, “You don’t want to do that. Voldemort does not share with dogs. He won’t even _mark_ you, will he?”

He snarled, his claws digging in slightly, but Harry backed further into him to avoid them piercing the skin, even though it meant pressing into his filth. “You fucking bitch,” he growled.

“Either call him or take me to someone who can,” She responded, “You won’t like it if I have to call him myself. I’m sure you’ll all be killed. And I know he has so many unpleasant ways of doing it.”

There was an audacious hesitancy after that, as though they were not quite sure whether to believe if Harry could call Voldemort or not. But fortunately, none of them wanted to chance it.

The original group of snatchers that had responded to Harry’s first utterance decided they would be the ones to take Harry to Malfoy Manor, and fortunately Greyback kept his groping hold mostly professional.

“We’ve got Potter!” Scabior announced when they arrived at the door.

“Alive and wriggling!” Greyback re-joined.

There was a stunned silence before Bellatrix started laughing, her wand already drawn. Harry’s undisguised face was plain for all to see, but Bellatrix despite her jubilance was cautious. It wouldn’t do to anger her master by being hasty. Plus, she was not one to throw away an opportunity for a little torture.

“Where’s her wand?” She demanded of Harry’s captors.

“She lost it trying to cast a Patronus,” Greyback jeered. Indeed, she had thrown something wand-like as she ran. Harry was surprised none of them had though to fucking check though. They had been in a forest full of one of the two components of wands.

Bellatrix laughed again, “Oh no, little girl. No one is coming to help you now. Especially if this is some kind of trick. The Dark Lord will know.”

“It is me, Bellatrix,” Harry hissed hatefully. “Call him.”

#

When Voldemort arrived, Harry pulled out her borrowed wand quickly, understanding that she needed to act fast. The gesture would mean nothing if she did not act sharply. Had it forcibly removed from her person.

She threw it on the ground at his feet.

He paused; the whole room paused. Voldemort’s sneer froze for a second, his bloody eyes scanning her. Harry supposed she ought to be flattered he thought her capable of a trick. Or perhaps it was just shock that no one had actually removed her wand from her already, nor checked her.

Someone who had been waiting so patiently and calmly had not been thought to have a method of defence on her.

His wand was still pointed at Harry, but it lowered a fraction; no less lethal, but acknowledging the gesture. He would give her time – not much, seconds if the pain in her scar was anything to go by, but he would give it to her.

There were others there in the room with them, watching with hungry eyes. Bellatrix looked rabid in the dim hall, the fading winter light catching those black, shiny eyes. Sirius had had lovely eyes, but for a moment she couldn’t see the difference from the madness in them. The Malfoys were also agog clutching at each other, Draco almost waxen with fear. The snatchers lingered, Greyback evidently smelling the blood in the air.

It was much too crowded in here, especially for a secret such as this. This was something only _he_ was supposed to know about, never considering in his arrogance that Dumbledore might have figured it out too.

So, Harry had to reach for the only privacy she could afford him, as he would not give her the room if she asked for it. His wand was almost sparking just restraining himself from cursing her outright. Harry had the hysterical thought of why he was pretending to be the kind and merciful lord when every single person in the room knew he was not?

Harry was always quick of the mark, seeker reflexes the only thing sharper than her tongue, but her eyes were screwed shut from the pain in her scar, and she had to act quickly.

She caught sight of Nagini, her giant form slithering menacingly around the occupants, listened to the slide of scaled flesh against polished wood to help her speak better. “ _Horcruxes.”_

There was a delicate pause, the slightest widening of his eyes….

Whilst she was twitching and screaming under his Cruciatus curse, everyone was dismissed out of the room.

Harry would have called the following temper tantrum spectacular if she had not been the one caught up the middle of it, baring the brunt of it.

Later she would only recall it in flashes, with the burning and cutting of her flesh. The lack of air as he held her under something awful crushing her windpipe.

And her own hoarse cry. “ _Me! Me! I am one!”_

A whip like slash across her mind, ripping the truth of those words out of it. His angry denial scraping it like a scouring curse. _“Not you. Never you, not such a pathetic wretch.”_

At some point, his temper had burnt to an ember. Never extinguished but cooled. Harry was aware that it was now dark outside, but it was winter, and it became dark very quickly in the evenings; she could have been there half an hour or three hours for all she knew.

Everything was stinging.

It could be worse, she knew that. It could have been much worse. But it was still awful, every fibre of skin throbbing with the rancorous beating of her heart.

Voldemort was pacing furiously. The gentle swish of his robes being the only sound to indicate that he was moving, that he was still there.

The only other sound Harry could hear over her own rasping breaths was the sound of a clock ticking. She tried to focus on that.

She did not know what he was waiting for.

He had questions, Voldemort would grill her until she had nothing left, but why he was waiting was beyond her. Harry let herself dribble on the floor. She could taste blood where she had bitten her tongue and her lips.

The sounds of the doors opening, and multiple footsteps made Harry’s breath stutter, her fear galloping in her chest. Perhaps this had been a serious miscalculation.

Perhaps she has made her own Voldemort sized mistake; her first mistake of this magnitude regarding her own life.

Was he going to kill her with an audience? Were they going to circle her like in fourth year?

Harry hadn’t thought her injuries were too bad. Painful, excruciating, but not life threatening.

Was Voldemort going to push that weak wand into her hand, make her stand and bow and die?

_Fuck him. Fuck, fuck, fuck him and his fucking soul._

If he was that stupid to toss away free information from his most persistent enemy, then he was a fool. He deserved a pitiful death, a reflected killing curse again with an audience to stare down at his piteous body. To witness his shame _. Fuck him!_

Suddenly she was in the air, and with a violent fling he tossed her down onto the floor towards the kneeling figures. She smacked into it with a grunt, breaking one of her teeth on the hard wood. She left a massive skid mark of blood as she slid on the polished surface, coming to a stop when her back tried to wrap around one of the assembled chairs.

She cried out at the pain, her scar a live wire and she knew at least two ribs were broken from being thrown.

“Heal her,” Voldemort snarled.

Harry hated to feel to pathetic and weak, so exposed with the slashes in her shirt. To her humiliation, a part of her cried out for _him_ because how dare he do this to her? He didn’t pause in his retreat, storming away, but there was a hesitance in his regard of her. She could feel that; her scar seared so brutally she finally caved to unconsciousness.

He inspected her when it was done. Of course. It had been left to Snape to help deal with her injuries and she had to deal with both of their unyielding gazes.

Voldemort could have healed her easily, if he so chose. Potions and salves aside, he could have healed his own inflicted wounds better than anyone else. But he couldn’t bear to look at her. He hated her too much.

Harry understood. She detested him too.

As she had thought, the wounds were not deadly. There was a lot of them but none of them were lethal on their own. Extensive cuts and welts covered the entirety of her body, but they weren’t too deep. When he had used the Cruciatus curse it had been brief; a kiss against her skin in comparison to what she knew he was capable of.

Seconds rather than minutes.

Snape had removed all her clothes, and as much as Harry wanted to hate him for doing so, she also knew he had to.

There were strips of cloth protecting her modesty, but she shivered on the table, wooden and not meant to act as a surgical instrument.

She looked up, picturing Charity Burbage, hanging suspended above the death eaters…tried not to shudder. At least she had had her fucking clothes.

There was vulnerable and then there was _this_.

Voldemort’s stare was clinical, detached even if his rage was battering Harry’s brain from its intensity. Harry could feel the blood leaking from her scar into her hair, more for his burning red eyes watching its progress than the tactile sense of warm fluid running across her skin.

With a sharp, cruel flick of his wand, he flipped her onto her front. She barely had a moment to realise what was happening, her face smacking into the table and her arms curled up underneath her body.

She was completely uncovered on this side, wanted to bury herself for the shame of it.

There had been a welt, running from her back down across her left arse cheek. And once again she understood why she couldn’t have any form of covering. But to lie on the table in the main hall, bare-arsed and flushing was too much. She was too exposed.

She was lean and thin and entirely the wrong shape.

Curved where she wanted to be angular, weak where she wanted to be strong.

The back of her eyes burned. It was worse for her audience.

Especially Snape, who would revel in James’ vulnerability and ogle Lily’s nakedness.

The snatchers had not been dismissed either and she could feel Greyback’s hungry stare on her from across the hall. She pressed her bleeding forehead into the wood.

Under Voldemort’s merciless gaze, she felt safer, if inadequate.

It became evident that he was happy with Snape’s proficiency when he snapped, “Dress her.” He turned away, before throwing another callous remark, “And sort out that ridiculous hair.”

Narcissa Malfoy gave her robes, helped her put them on. They may have even belonged to the woman herself. The tones would work with her pale hair and pale skin. They did not suit Harry, who may have been pale in the winter sun, but was nowhere near as marble like as Mrs Malfoy.

There was no privacy.

Mrs Malfoy’s gaze was cool, her sneer frozen even if her hands shook a little.

Voldemort had dismissed everyone else.

He did not watch, did not care to see what Mrs Malfoy was putting her in.

Voldemort won’t suffer muggle clothes in his presence, so Harry had been put in unbearably feminine robes, tight and laced up.

Proper, of course. Modest. But revealing of her figure.

Harry had always been very thin, starved-looking at times. Harry had liked how boy-ish it had made her figure. Much more comfortable. More practical. Hard to run for your life when you haven’t got a sports bra on. Harry had been blessed with almost no chest, nipples on an ironing board in comparison to her more well-endowed peers.

The other girls had teased her about it, like Harry had given a shit.

The only thing she hadn’t liked about being so thin was how it affected her face, made her eyes too big, her cheekbones too sharp.

The starving child look had done wonders for looking innocent and incapable of harming a fly when she was in trouble, but as she got older it attracted different looks. Looks that made her clutch her wand with spiteful fingers and want to curse and hiss and spit and…

She grumbled at the sense of her hair growing, shaking her head in a way that would have made Sirius grin. _See, she does take after me after all._ Growing her hair to a more respectable length? Really? It was loosely tied it at her nape.

Voldemort wasn’t watching her directly, but she can feel his grin like one can feel a brand fresh from the fire. A roiling heat across the skin. He knew she hated it.

It was part of the reason he had done it, after all.

Voldemort hated the truth of Harry being a horcrux. Hated it with a passion she could appreciate it. She hated it too.

But he had already cautiously accepted the reality of the matter, and thus their limbo began.

She was put in a chair, hardbacked and uncomfortable, her hands tied in front of her.

How many death eaters had squirmed in this chair before her?

Mrs Malfoy was dismissed without another word.

And the silence began.

Eventually Voldemort sat at the head of the table, Harry in her seat a few feet away. Separate, isolated and feeling very much like a target.

She watched his deep, measured breaths, impressed and envious despite herself. If her scar was not continually spiking, she would have thought him the measure of calm he was pretending to be.

But now came the hard part.

He would want details, information. And Harry had to decide what she would give up.

In the cruel reality of it all, she had made up her mind by whispering his name, calling out to him despite knowing the cost.

Harry always knew there was something…. _wrong_ with her. She just didn’t _get_ it. Ron and Hermione were her best friends, or perhaps more aptly, she was their best friend.

She liked them well enough to tolerate in class, to let them tag along on her adventures. To pretend to listen to Hermione’s scolding and Ron’s rants about ‘that git’ Malfoy.

But it had never gone deeper than that.

In truth, she found it so hard because they were her ‘friends’ and therefore she had to be okay when they disappointed her. She had to accept their apologies. Ron’s jealousy grated and Hermione’s snitching infuriated her.

And Harry always focused on the bad over the good.

But even then, when she liked them, it was so superficial. No substance nor depth.

The only real connection she felt she had had was with Sirius and even that was…not like other relationships she had seen.

Sirius was hers. He hadn’t been free to be anything else.

She just didn’t understand relationships.

Hermione and Ron knew all about the horcruxes. Because Professor Dumbledore had told them.

Harry was possessive and quiet when it came to secrets and knowledge. Not inclined to share anything that was of worth. Others had to earn that.

She had even felt affronted on Voldemort’s behalf at Professor Dumbledore showing her snippets of his past. They were not for anyone else. _They were private._ At least he hadn’t shared those with the others. Only what Harry would need help hunting.

Harry chafed at it, slumping in her chair. Selling out did not look good on her part, not of the image that fit Harry Potter. But holding out on her soul? That felt more wrong. That disengaged piece of empathy would only flair up when she thought about the consequences to herself or to Voldemort, to whom she was tied.

Suddenly, Voldemort bound her legs from ankle to thigh. Harry glowered at him, was it because he did not like the way she slouched, legs akimbo and taking up space? A cocky, arrogant pose more befitting his teenaged self than little Harry Potter?

A cruel smile curved her lips, despite the fact she could feel her circulation being pinched by the tight ropes.

He did not know what to do with her. He would prefer to never see her again, wanted to kill her, peel her away strip of flesh at a time until there is not even a trace of Harry Potter left in the world.

But now he can’t do that.

The Draft of Living Death was an option, Harry supposed, but he was hesitant about that. She could taste that hesitance in the air.

In peace times? Perhaps.

In war? When the others are being hunted? That would just mean a dead weight and an unmoving target.

Her scar twanged in a blinding fashion.

Harry knew he appreciated that she came to him, as much as he hated her, he knew that she was on side. At least on side enough that he could trust her to remain conscious, if not free.

She had given up her wand freely. That meant a lot, regardless of who did it.

And yet, he did not ask any questions. He did not even speak. But Harry knew he was dying to ask, could feel his impatience as if it were her own.

They both knew they have the luxury of a little time, Ron and Hermione had fled, but would need to recoup. Her loss would be a staggering blow before they could continue their hunt.

Harry swallowed wetly, and she felt more than just his eyes trailing the motion. What was he going to do? He had something planned. She could feel it, like sneaky hands caressing the edges of a forbidden object, scoping out its shape, its size.

She tried to still her trembling legs.

He smiled slowly at the motion, his fingers curling around the table edge as he taunted her, “The tyranny of kin.”

“Indeed,” she hissed imperiously back.

He let her sit there until she was bursting for the loo and still wouldn’t let her up. He let her sit there until she was soaked in urine several times over and the smell of ammonia stung her nose.

Nagini complained about the stench and moved away from the fire to the other side of the hall. Voldemort let her sit there until her bowels were clenching and roiling in pain.

He watched her squirm from the corner of his eye, though his quill did not pause in its scratching across the parchment.

“ _Please, Voldemort,”_ Harry finally gasped. He stood in a flash at the name, and Harry nearly shit herself at her searing scar. “ _That’s your name, isn’t it? The one you chose for yourself.”_ She won’t ever call him Tom, not like Dumbledore did. She respected his choice to discard the name he hated so much.

She was not stupid nor arrogant enough to believe if she did call him the name he hated, that he would ever let it go. That she would be allowed the privilege to drag that awful name out and wave it in his face and have him allow it.

Nor would she call him her lord or her master. He was not either. Not yet, maybe not ever. That title was earned not given, on both their parts.

She averted her eyes; it was as close to submission as she could give him.

“ _Are you going to deny me the pleasure of a good shit on an actual toilet?”_

He did not approve of her humour. He detested crassness, he always had. He saw it as an unsightly reminder of his less than savoury upbringing.

On the other hand, Harry liked it. It was a rejection to all she was meant to be, the little girl who played nice and wouldn’t swear. The saviour of the wizarding world who was pure and pretty and every inch the lady of her house that she should be.

Swearing and fighting were the anathema of what she should be – in everyone’s eyes. From the Dursley’s being disgusted by their tomboy niece to the purebloods being horrified at the Potter heir covered in dirt. So quick to muggle violence.

She could remember Malfoy’s look of undisguised horror when he saw her covered in blood from a broken nose, baring her teeth in the fallacy of a smile.

Of course, that line of action was not available to her anymore. Not in the way she craved it. Though she had always been small, wrought out of wire and not much else, she had had strength. The kind of strength that came from will alone. And whilst she had been young that had been enough. She could hold her own with the boys even at eleven and twelve but then they outgrew her and though she could still hold sway with her wand and her will, fighting in the untrained, aggressive animalistic way that was Voldemort’s raw brutality and viciousness was not an option anymore.

It was flattering as it was insulting that they wouldn’t fight anymore because Harry was a _girl_ , and as she grew into her teenage years it became more apparent that she was one. Her build remained slight as theirs began to expand, her face only became prettier and more delicate.

Not bad traits to have, but when there was a part of her expecting to match them, grow with them, expected a broader jaw…it rankled more than any other insult.

She hated Voldemort for putting this indecision in her. What was she? Was she her soul and his combined, or more terrifyingly was she more him than her? Was she not comfortable because she was a male in a female’s body?

He was going to make her beg. She wondered if her pride was worth it. Could she sit here in her excrement, thoroughly soiled and humiliated?

He could not hurt her, not yet. Not as much as he wanted to. But his petty cruelty demanded to be satisfied and seeing her humiliated and stinking must have scratched an itch.

“ _Please, I need to go,”_ She spoke again, maintaining eye contact. “ _You’ve had your fun, but I know you want answers.”_

Voldemort smirked at her, nails scratching the tabletop as he walked around it. “ _I will have my answers either way.”_

Indeed, he would, Harry could admit that. She couldn’t keep him out of her head, nor did she want to. She had surrendered for this exact purpose. _“Yes, but it is winter. It would be shame to have your glorious moment ruined by frostbite from the open windows trying to combat the smell of my shit caked arse.”_

As she looked at his flat expression, she wondered if he had plans to become an old miser from a young age. If he had ever had a sense of humour or if it was dwarfed by his ego even at as a child.

“ _I will allow you to use the bathroom. Then you will answer all my questions in full. Do not make Lord Voldemort regret this mercy._ ”

She nodded.

He directed her personally, and she took great joy in spending as much time as she needed in the ostentatious bathroom. Who knew a diet of transfigured mushrooms could wreak such havoc on someone’s bowels?

A house-elf brought her back to the main hall in which she had been interred.

Voldemort looked at her with a sneer and gestured to her soiled chair. Her robes were still soaked with urine, the cold and damp material clinging to her legs.

She sat down stiffly, trying not to visibly wince at the horrid sensation of the robes sticking and pulling with the motion. She held in the wince when there was a squelch of the heavy, saturated material.

She could feel his smile, like she could feel the sun burning on her face in August.

The broken locket was gently set on the table. “Who destroyed this?” he asked, voice so soft that it made his anger all the sharper.

Harry thought her scar was bleeding, there was wetness to accompany the burning heat on her forehead.

So, this was how it was to begin. She knew he would twist it later. Harry Potter sold out all her friends and her cause for going to for a shit so foul that it nearly peeled off the house-elf’s eyelids.

All those lives for the comfort of her bowels.

She would not let him cheapen this. She was selling out for her soul – _his_ soul. The one he had so cheaply cut up into pieces. Her insurance policy.

How does she play this?

Ron for all his faults had been a fine friend, it would not do to sell him out for destroying the locket, but on the other hand, he was not going to stop. Nor would Hermione.

They would continue to hunt down the others. A wave of possessiveness washed over her. _They’re hers._ Her gaze catches the Dark Lord’s. He was impatient and her silence was grating his already short temper. _They’re theirs._

She ought to feel cheap, she thought.

He was giving her the opportunity to talk instead of invading her mind. A gesture of respect from anyone else, but he wanted to give her enough rope to hang herself. He wanted to watch her twist and writhe, so he could properly inflict the hurt she deserved on her.

She understood that desire.

She opened her mouth, gave him what he wanted so badly to take. She could never truly seal her mind from his, never had the skill to weave protections around her thoughts. Much like him, she was better at taking, at seeking the truth from others and _daring, just daring_ others to try and look back. To offer what she did was going to was akin to offering her wand again; she hoped he would appreciate the gesture for what it was.

She knew he wouldn’t. Not until he saw her as an extension of himself.

“Look for yourself.”

#

She was bound to another chair, a massive mahogany monstrosity, moved to a more private wing of Malfoy Manor. The room was empty bar from Nagini and herself. It was almost comical how Voldemort avoided her.

There was still blood crusted under her nose. Her heart was beating against the back of her eyes.

She hated how pleased he had looked with all the information he had scooped out of her mind. He’d watched the blood stream out of her, her tongue flicking out to try and get rid of the worst of it from her lips.

There was so much anger there, in his gaze.

But she had given him everything he wanted. And Harry knew that would stem that violence for now. Only until he was displeased with her again, which would be shortly, she knew.

He was predictable like that.

Harry feared that her friends would find one of the other horcruxes before time. He would go to collect them as soon as he could, even if Ron and Hermione were hidden away for now regathering their strength.

He wanted them dead. He was so angry that they even knew of his horcruxes existence. His anger towards her had only been mollified that it wasn’t Harry who had told them.

The Dark Lord had beheld her indignant horror at Dumbledore’s indiscretion with a curiosity that had mellowed his brutality for a while. Until he had seen Ron bring the sword down, heard Harry’s own treacherous tongue open it, expose their weakness.

He had watched and re-watched everything in Harry’s life. Her conflict of character, her little court in school, her interest in studying but not lessons. How she had to contend with being bored in her classes, unfocused because a part of her felt she already knew this information and it was boring, but then being frustrated because she could not do it straight away _like she knew she could_.

He watched her style her hair, practice her smile in the mirror again and again. The faux humbleness that characterised the pair of them, though Harry had always been awkward and unsettled, a child on a stage she was not ready for, whereas he had had time to grow and shape his act.

Voldemort studied every humiliation in her life. Exposing her as much as Dumbledore had him. Dudley chasing her, Vernon berating her. Harry’s first period which felt _wrong, wrong, wrong_. Petunia with her outrage at Harry bleeding on the bedsheets. Harry could deal with being female. She was female, but there was a small part of her that found this unnatural, the realities of being this sex too different from the previous known one.

There was a perverse joy in that for him. Maybe even a sliver of perverse pity too. That she was female. That she was not him.

Harry thought of the scar on her left forearm, Wormtail had split her from crook to wrist. Her own form of a caesarean scar.

The closest thing to birth and femininity that she wanted. That he wanted.

Nagini was the only female in his life.

Bellatrix would love that kind of title, and the attention that came with it. The crazed witch liked to consider herself his most loyal. The only female death eater worth his time. Bellatrix considered Nagini a pet. Was not threatened by Nagini as she was not a human. Not someone who can truly takeaway the affection Bellatrix thought she deserved.

Ironically, Nagini considered Bellatrix a pet.

The only difference really was that Nagini may be more correct in her assessment of the situation than Bellatrix. Nagini was assured in her place in Voldemort’s affections. He did not love anything, even his own pride and admiration for himself is not quite love, but Nagini was irreplaceable.

If Voldemort considered himself the top of all things, the only natural second is Nagini, who is also him bound in a powerful snake form. The queen of serpents to match the king of men.

There is no room for Harry in this little hierarchy of the natural order of things. Harry didn’t mind so much. She would not be here if she thought there was another option for herself. She traded the option of ‘definitely will die’, for ‘might die’. It was still unacceptable – she wanted to live and the assurance that she would.

Oddly enough, she was soon allowed to walk on the grounds, her wrists still bound. Voldemort was her escort.

The werewolves roam the vast estate of Malfoy Manor, banned from most of the house. She felt their stares on her as she was paraded around under the guise of exercise. The leers on her collarbones, bared for the first time to the world.

Voldemort only allowed her the air for this reason.

A reminder.

He was her protection here.

A humiliation.

She was not him. She was female and thereby prey to creatures like Greyback, if he was to allow it.

Harry had interrupted him in some work when she had said his name. He longed to go back to it but was evidently unsure how to deal with her even for the short-term.

In one situation he would like to keep her doped up to the eyeballs in potions to keep her amiable, less likely to backchat, but it still left him with a deadweight who could not protect herself and his soul. In the other, she came of her own free will, she was staying freely. And that had bought the leniency of walks, no pain, no drugs. But Harry was not allowed a wand. Which made her – and by extension, him – vulnerable.

She ought to be flattered that even though she had given him the assurance of her cooperation, he still did not underestimate her. That he thought her capable of attempting to outmanoeuvre him.

One has to strike a balance, Harry mused as she trailed behind him, between challenging and respectful.

Harry cannot be Voldemort, nor did she want to, but she cannot be a pet either, nor a death eater.

She could not lie down and bend to his will, or he would not respect her enough for any form of decency. But she had to mind the line. She was only a horcrux, and a former enemy, Undesirable Number One at that – he would tolerate cheek, and insubordination only to a certain degree. Because of his soul.

The more like him she was, the more respect she would get, but too much would mean that he would shut her down. He cannot trust another version of himself to not conspire. Harry would bet her vault that he would have looked and explored options for removing the piece of soul, if only so he could get the satisfaction of killing Harry.

He still might yet. He had made a human horcrux, after all. The realms of possibility must seem like nothing under his monstrous ego.

That ego was what she must exploit.

(--It’s with that innate instinct for _weakness_ that drives her with the diary. Her hand cramping with the speed of her writing the moment he brings up the chamber, _Riddle, that’s a muggle name, isn’t it? You must have been worried. You must have been a target yourself._

There is a hesitance as those heavily blotted words sink into the page. _Oh, yes. Very worried_.

 _All the more reason to find a culprit for the chamber then._ A culprit, not the culprit. She knew he had caught that implication with the slant of his response.

_Yes, the school was about to close. It was a very concerning time for all involved. Especially after the death of the girl._

She had paused, dabbed her quill on the paper, let it know she was thinking on what he said as the ink blotted messily. _How did you find being in Slytherin with a muggle heritage?_ She asked instead.

 _Slytherins respect power._ Was in the instant response, a flash of heat to the words.

 _I heard that there are no true muggleborns in Slytherin._ Harry offered, a lie. She had never heard that though she suspected it. _You must be related to someone?_ \--)

She was cunning and sharp, but she planted herself in Gryffindor soil and no matter how much she was watered, she could only grow in the ways Gryffindor cultivated. It had made her clumsy and inelegant. A brutish blade, a crude axe. Voldemort was planted in an environment that trimmed him into the sharpest of sharp tongues. Harry imagined the games played in the Slytherin common room with the current seventh years paled in comparison to the conversations Voldemort was engaging in his second.

Though there is a part of Harry that is 71, it is silent and the largest part of her is 17. She cannot play against him. He was an adult and she was pretty much a child in comparison. She almost wished that she had let the diary kill Ginny. That was a smaller age gap to battle with…

But then - Harry was also defensive, whereas he was offensive.

Harry struck and she struck hard, but only when provoked. Even at the Dursley’s she would let them draw first blood.

Voldemort struck because he could.

Perhaps it was better for poor little Tom Riddle to be born so vicious. Such a pretty little thing in the 30s with no parents to protect him, oh how the adults would have loved him, the lecherous caretakers…even the other children would have loved him if he hadn’t taken such joy in hurting others unprovoked.

Because no matter how he would sell it as ‘deserved’ later, it was always unprovoked.

Done because he could, because he wanted to.

Because even now, nothing compared to the thrill of seeing Billy Stubbs’ painfully and slowly gained confidence shrivel and wither every summer he came back.

They would have eaten Harry alive. But never Tom Riddle.

A door opened, pulling Harry out of her stupor, unwittingly tensing in her seat. She believed was in a private wing that Voldemort had decided to play house in, and so the only person she saw was Voldemort himself when he would deign to grace her with his presence.

It was Draco Malfoy. Harry was surprised, blinking her aching eyes at him.

He was pale, with an almost grey tinge around the edges.

There would only one reason he was here. Voldemort thought there was some sport to be had. Did he want to see Harry’s bite, or did he really just enjoy Malfoys’ squirming now they were so out of favour?

Harry smiled lazily at her ex-classmate, the dried blood crusting and flaking onto her lips as he shuffled in with a cup of tea. The china rattled against its saucer.

 _Reduced to a house-elf._ He set it down on the small table next to her.

“I used to think you were smart, Potter,” he said softly, looking at the state of her. He focused on the blood, there was always so much of it. Sticky and clotting along her face. The painful bruising of constant legilimency causing her nose to gush.

His pale eyes barely looked at her exposed flesh like the others did. He stared more at the blood staining the nice trim of the robes. Maybe he was picturing when his mother wore them last, what she would look like with blood settled in her clavicle.

Draco had once said the same thing to her in fifth year, the gleam of his little Inquisitorial Squad badge jarring against his prefect badge when he had caught her out after curfew.

At the time she had grimaced, hardly in the mood for him after her detentions no matter how enjoyable she found his meanness. “What do you mean, Draco?”

He sneered at her assumed familiarity, even though she knew he liked it. “What are you getting out of baiting her all the time? Look at yourself. That’ll scar you know.” He joined her in her slow walk. He was getting very tall, Harry noted with flash of bitterness.

Harry had clenched her fist, revelled in the burn of the wounds as they stretched. A hefty price for sure, but she saw how it rallied her allies. It brought people closer because Harry Potter was willing to _bleed_ for the truth. A truth so little wanted to believe. It galled her enemies in the school too. She could see their irritation as she refused to bend. Felt it as Umbridge gave her more and more lines.

More recently, she began to see the doubt too. If she kept saying it, and so many death eaters had escaped Azkaban…Harry Potter was bleeding and her story unchanging…

No matter how cold or how mean Harry was, she stood by what she said and would suffer by it instead of conceding herself a liar.

Maybe that was one of her redeeming qualities, the recoil in the elastic that kept Ron and Hermione by her side?

“It’s worth it,” she said, glancing up at him. “If I don’t stand by the truth, who else will?”

It was something Harry didn’t think he understood even now. The weight of the truth. Her truth, if nothing else. The strength of her convictions meant that people believed her when she spoke. The fact she would live, bleed and die by those words bought her immeasurable trust.

It was one of the many complex reasons Voldemort didn’t go out of his way to permanently harm her. Even the legilimency was more a habit and no different to how he treated his death eaters. If Harry Potter says she has chosen him, then she has chosen him.

Draco had always felt the need to conform, to toe the line his parents set. It was why he was in the position he was now. Here out of duty and fear. He would say whatever to please the Dark Lord. Harry would not. And yet Draco still not realise the worth of having and sticking to his own convictions.

Harry Potter chose this and would stick by it.

It had bought Harry her life and Draco Malfoy bringing her tea.

“Perhaps you should be grateful, Draco,” she finally croaked with a hoarse voice. “The Malfoys will never get a chance to disavow the Dark Lord again should the other side have won.” He recoiled as if she levelled him with a stinging hex. “You should be grateful that he has given you the opportunity to demonstrate your loyalty so publicly by housing him in your grand estate.”

Something ran down the back of her neck, like a shiver. Amusement.

Draco left. She wasn’t sure why he had even come in. Maybe Voldemort would punish him later for the transgression.

#

It was cold in the Manor, and Nagini was curled up by the fire. Harry had been placed next to her, with both of them are facing the front of the hall.

It was a boring existence, made torturous by not knowing what was happening in the outside world. But Harry had to bide her time. Though, she needed to force to its head soon. This had to change.

Nagini had taken an exception to Harry, feeling threatened by her presence despite the fact Voldemort couldn’t stand her. Harry thought it was probably because Harry was off the menu until further notice. Potentially forever.

Though Harry had sincere doubts about that. There was too much history between Voldemort and herself. Too much room for missteps in a ground laden with bombs.

It was deep winter and despite how well maintained the Malfoy’s home was, it was still cold for a snake. Even Harry had been placed close to the fire, and Voldemort did not care if she lost a few toes to frostbite.

Harry’s right side was toasty, the heat from the fire licking her clothes comfortably. The left side had a considerable breeze.

Nagini was curled up on a rug, but even that was not enough to spare her the winter chill. She was sluggish and even more irritable than normal, her nasty yellow eyes more venomous than her fangs at times.

Harry had an idea to win her over, and she needed to if she was to stand a chance. Voldemort’s chinks in his armour were his horcruxes, none more so than Nagini.

She was the way in.

Her idea was an unusual one and leant into their shared similarities more than Harry ever had before.

Harry could not ask Nagini to move around, the snake would snap at her and refuse in principle. She could understand that. If she didn’t need Nagini, she would happily skewer her with Gryffindor’s sword. But she did, because whatever happened, Harry was not spending the rest of her life – however long or short that may be - bound to a fucking chair.

So, Harry set herself to turning herself and the chair around. The heavy legs scored the floor angrily, causing an almighty screech as she did so.

Nagini watched her in lazy amusement, not bothering to stop her as Harry could not get away. A malicious light of enjoyment in her eyes as she thought Harry was attempting and failing an escape. “ _Stupid. Master won’t let you go now. He will kill you.”_ Nagini hissed, sluggishly.

Harry just huffed at her, before pulling again at the arms of the monstrosity she was loosely bound to. Finally, Harry had to chair at 180 degrees to its original standpoint and she sighed in exhaustion, slumping against the ornately carved back.

She took a moment to gather herself before trying to reach inwards, clear her mind like Snape had berated her time and time again for being unable to do. It was easier than ever here, with Nagini so close and Harry’s scar always burning so much. So easy to shut her eyes and slip into the snake.

Neither of them liked it particularly, and Harry could feel Nagini’s ire rising but fortunately there was no tell-tale flicker of Voldemort’s awareness. Harry utilised the sensation this time, not to take control but just to share the heat from her now fire-facing left side, to Nagini’s exposed and cold left side.

Harry could feel coils that were not her own pause and the tension unwound as heat flooded her senses.

It was hard, and indescribably weird, to be in two minds at once, but they settled quickly at the shared heat.

Harry could feel the low burn of resentment in Nagini cool a little. It was still there, integral to her as it was to Voldemort, but she was fully warmed - and a snake is easily bought.

When Voldemort returned, he did not do anything so common as to double take at Harry’s very obviously changed position. But she could feel his regard as she half dozed in her chair, the pain from his closeness dragging her away from the synergy of being close to another horcrux.

He said something to Nagini, evidently saw a hint of Harry in her dark eyes.

The burning pain intensified briefly but then simmered in consideration.

Harry was almost settled back into her previous clam, before Voldemort suddenly pulled the chair closer to the himself, disrupting it. The connection between Nagini’s and Harry’s minds broke with a violent snap causing Harry to cry out unintentionally. Nagini hissed angrily, her body twitching agitatedly as the sensation.

Voldemort barely even blinked, continuing to bring Harry closer to him, the heavy feet of her prison scoring the wood as he dragged it down the length of the hall.

He could have lifted it. Easily.

But like her, he was petty and malicious. He causes damage.

Harry bared as much weight down as she could in the chair, unable to control the desire to try and cause more by adding her weight to it (not that there is much to add, she was so light after those months on the run.)

He smiled a little at that, bemused at her antics. Seeing himself in her at last.

Or maybe he just thought she was scared.

Either way, the chink in his armour had worked. He unbound her hands. She had got a place at the table.

#

When Voldemort finally brought the others to her – he had gathered them close, until it was safe to hide them again in the world again, weeks ago - he dumped them on the table.

There were only two left, not counting herself and Nagini; Ravenclaw’s diadem and Hufflepuff’s cup.

Although the magic on the diary and the locket had been subtle, and Harry imagined it was on these too, the combination of so many horcruxes together made them positively vibrate over the surface, skittering with a latent heat that Harry felt blistering under her skin.

She couldn’t help herself. She stuck her hands on them, trying to hide her own trembling.

He watched her with a curious air, indifferent if Harry could not feel his razor-sharp focus under her skin.

Nagini hissed at her, possessively. They were as much hers as they were Harry’s. Though the animosity between them was mostly gone, there were still barbs. Harry hissed wordlessly back, shoulders hunching defensively and protectively as she pulled the horcruxes nearer.

“ _Settle,”_ the Dark Lord murmured, placatingly to them both.

Her scar was sickening with the pain of them all being together, but she could tell was pleased. This was the result he wanted.

He had trusted her with these. Though she would not see them again, not for a long time. He did this as a kind of internal validity check.

He was watching Harry more than Nagini. Checking her for signs of himself, watching her reverent fingers trace the beautiful arches of the diadem. Her pinkie catching the handle of the cup. How he could bear to stand to the side whilst they were all there, in front of him, within touching distance was beyond Harry.

They were both adverse to touch, unless they initiated it.

But there was a palpable need in the air with all that’s left of the horcruxes, all together.

Harry felt a warm trickle on her face. Her scar was bleeding again, but that was to be expected.

It was not expected for Voldemort to step up to her and wipe away the blood with his thumb.

The pain was not as bad as when he was resurrected, not that horrific touch that had sent her screaming and screaming in such a high- _girlish_ -pitch that Harry could cringe from the memory alone, but it was still bad.

It was impossible to stay quiet though. So, she did what Tom Riddle would have done, snarling into the pain.

Instantly, the scar beaded with blood again.

Voldemort frowned down at her from his impressive height. Harry was surprised at his outwardly expressed emotion; wondered if it was for her benefit.

His thumb came back again, clean from his previous swipe, and this time when he pressed it against the scar, he lingered for a second longer. As if he were trying to push the blood back into it.

Even though it hurt, it was the same kind of pain one would get from a burn. Nothing for a long moment before the brain caught up with the nerves. And in that painless, this-will-hurt-but-not-yet moment, Harry pushed her forehead into his hold.

She blamed the horcruxes for it.

She blamed the horcruxes for the fact that he did not push her away. That the scar did not hurt worse than before.

Harry had one hand clutching the diadem, and she could hear the low lilting whispers of kin from it pushing her further.

Voldemort must have heard it to, because his thumb slowly smoothed out across her forehead, like some kind of bloody baptism as his palm settled across the expanse of it instead.

And before Harry knew it, she was standing with a ragged gasp, leaning against that support, her shoulder pressed into his chest.

Voldemort’s hand fisted in the back of her robes, his knuckles bruising into her spine with the force. Whether that was to pull her away, pull her closer or just hold her, she could not be sure.

The burning, wet and bloodied palm suddenly moved, and its movement sent blood running down the bridge of her nose. His large hand slid round and round, until he cupped the back of her head, pulling her in and in until she was pressed against his sternum.

Harry snarled into it, the pain blurring her eyes and making her nose run. She could smell nothing but her own blood. _Their blood. Stolen and shared between them._ There was sweat sticking to the back of her neck, her too long hair clinging there in thick rattails. Harry wanted to latch onto him but grabbed his sleeve instead in a tight fist, knowing he would snap if she sought to wrap her arms around him like he had her, no matter the need for closeness.

He must be in control.

Harry knew that he needed to see her weakness for them, for _him_ , needed to know that she won’t harm anymore of them. He needed to stop seeing her as a threat.

So, she let her hands grasp his robe, but not his flesh, in tight handfuls, pulling like a child might. Where he had established contact, she pressed in greedily even though it hurt _so much_. She let out a groan, or a moan, something obscene as she ground her head further against his ribcage.

The hand nestled deep in her hair tightened, the nails soothing against her scalp. He took a deep breath in, gently massaging her head.

Eventually, they pulled apart, though Harry could not tell who had chosen to do so. He may have gotten sick of the contact, or the pain may have made her push away. Regardless, they were free.

The sickening vertigo made her legs buckle and she collapsed into a chair, boneless before him. Her arms were trembling, and her breaths were great shaking exhales. Harry’s hands shook like she had had several rounds of the Cruciatus curse, but like a crack addict in withdrawal, she couldn’t help but snatch up one of the horcruxes to bring it closer to her.

Her eyes rolled when they ran around the rim of the cup, her calloused fingers scratching it, much like that long-lost photo to the woods.

There was a sleepy kind of acknowledgment from the cup. There is less soul in this one, she thought. A cup was not constructive for holding consciousness the same way a diary or locket was.

She was smearing blood all over it, and Voldemort quickly vanished the viscous matter from the surface, unwilling to wake it up. Though he did not seem irritated at her lack of thought in grabbing it, her terrible short-sightedness, as he normally would.

Voldemort watched her with a thoughtful expression. Harry blinked through her swinging vision; thought he had changed the colour of his eyes from blood red to black for a dizzy moment before realising it was his dilated pupils.

Good. He was affected as she, even if he held more composure than Harry did.

She had once thought to herself as this being her plan. Cunning and sly.

Pretend to capitulate, confess her status so he would bring them all together. She could see them all, destroy them all in one fell swoop. Harry wondered distantly if he had seen that plan, that fledgling idea of hers that had never taken flight.

But now she couldn’t.

He had her wand. One she had given up freely.

She also didn’t _want_ to.

She let out a broken sound, one she should have held back, could have held back in any other circumstance, but he needed to see this. To know this; she was choosing him above all else. No matter what it cost her.

Not that he could ever appreciate what it cost her.

Harry may not be _right_ , may not understand nor appreciate her friends as much as she ought, but she knew that deficiency, resented it in herself to a degree.

To Voldemort there was only himself and Harry would be right to give it all up to him. What else – _who_ else could there be?

She returned her eyes of the beautiful, golden cup, the oily coating that smeared the badger from friendly into feral. She couldn’t bear to look away. Until his long pale fingers came down, crooked under her chin.

She looked up freely, without further prompting. Wondered what he saw. What she looked like.

Blood dragged across her forehead in a savage imprint of a smeared hand. A faucet running from an open wound, _his_ wound. She could feel the globules of blood settling on the barrier of her eyebrow, the meandering river running down the arch and the side of her face, the rest running down her nose. Collecting in her nostrils, on her lips.

All she could taste was rust.

 _I am paying my price for choosing you_ , Harry thought.

_She would bleed forever more._

His fingers were as stained as she imagined her face to be. He collected some more of the blood from the underside of her lower lip pensively.

She caught the shimmering imprint of her face, grossly distorted in the press of his robes. He moved closer to her, stepping between her shaking legs until her loomed right above her, blocking out most of the world bar himself.

Harry tilted her head back to maintain eye-contact. His hand came to settle around her throat, not squeezing or threatening, just settled there loosely.

A statement all on its own.

Harry tried not to worry her lip in pain, knowing he would read it as nerves. Her fingers spasmed around the delicate handles of the cup. _Mine_.

“I am…” she trailed off, knowing he would love the drama of what she would say, the melodrama complementing his glorious nature, “—but a shadow,” she whispered, still caressing the cup.

 _Pleasure._ Vicious, vicious pleasure nearly made her eyes roll backwards _._ “And what do you want, Harriet Potter?” he asked, his cold hand still resting at her throat.

This must be played carefully, Harry reminded herself - respectful but not submissive. Not over-reaching but knowing one’s place is only behind his.

They both have a desperate need for attention. He to be seen by all, her to be seen by him. And in that moment, he saw her. In that moment, she knew she was all he saw too. Not even Nagini’s looping coils could compare to Harry.

“I want to do the name proud.” _It’s a whisper. A promise._ A declaration of loyalty unmatched by even his most devoted.

Horcrux.

Lord Voldemort.

There are certain standards applied to both of those things.

Lord Voldemort’s Horcrux.

His nails were sharp, he could do some real damage if he was so inclined with her pulse thumping vividly under her skin, but his thumb just slowly stroked her carotid artery as he considered her.

The searing, agonising pain of her scar faded slowly, until there were only tiny pins and needles under the surface. A separate awareness, but no longer angry.

She’s forgiven.

She’s been accepted.

#

Things changes after that, much as winter turned into spring and her wand was returned to her. Her actual wand, its beautiful holly polished to a bright sheen.

Of course, Harry had never questioned Voldemort’s new wand. It had been Dumbledore’s, she knew, but she had never asked the burning question of why he had it. Harry had not asked about his missing yew one either.

When Voldemort had demanded the contents of her mokeskin pouch, she had been reluctant, but she had given it. He did not understand why she kept such a bizarre collection of broken items, bar from the wand.

That he had secreted away for a time.

Now she had it back, fixed and whole; she never wanted to be parted from it again. Glowered at the thought of her borrowed wand, because it had never been enough. That was unfair to it. It was not built to handle a witch as strong as her.

Voldemort called her Harry now. He called her Harry in the way she called him Voldemort.

The way a boy disgusted with his muggle name had wanted to discard it and be something better.

The way she was disgusted with such a plain girls name and wanted to be something she is not.

He let her cut her hair, burn the trimmings and wear her preferred robes.

It was almost odd to have hair not brushing her shoulders again, but it felt freeing. The lack of breeze on her chest relaxed her more than anything else.

Harry thought he may understand now. After all, who would not want to be him?

They settled into a somewhat easy routine, where he prescribed her readings and taught her how to duel even better than she previously could.

There’s a battle at Hogwarts. He returns. She doesn’t ask. He doesn’t gloat.

It will not work forever; they both knew that. But it worked for now.

In the late summer of 1998, he rolled a glass vial over to her after their lesson on potions. Harry picked it up carefully, her nails clinking against the delicate glass. Inside there were several hairs. Short dark strands the length of her own, like they had been plucked from someone’s temple.

Harry looked at him, he was rather indifferent about the issue.

She wondered if they were his, though he wouldn’t want to waste his own face on her, even if was a face he had discarded years ago.

He may have chosen someone similar looking though.

The implication was clear.

Harry’s nail scratched along the tube, contemplating.

It was another test, that she knew. The moments of kindness were always a test. But it is one he would honour, regardless of what she chose.

Voldemort knew the desire for metamorphosis, had experienced it himself as a man wanting to be a god. He eyed up her contradictions and problems with a measured eye. A kindly eye, almost, as she was his.

Voldemort would keep her happy if it was not an inconvenience to him. A body more aligned to his soul was a gift. But it was a gift to his soul not hers.

It was a unique kind of torture for Harry and she glared at him after her inspection of the hairs. He smiled, fingers caressing the edges of his personal copy of _Moste Potente Potions._

Harry felt a dreadful confusion within her. Unable to decide. She knew there were some wizards and witches and muggles alike who were born as the wrong sex, but Harry Potter hadn’t been. She was a girl. Voldemort had made her into this.

Was she female or male? Her or him? Harry or Voldemort? Perhaps she was neither, someone who fluctuated between the two.

Nagini felt no such confliction. She was Nagini.

But who would Harry be?

Would Harry win or Voldemort?

To change would be to give into Harry Potter who couldn’t settle in her own flesh. To change would show lack of adaptability which Voldemort prided himself on. Voldemort is perfect, no matter the form he takes, not matter the container. He is.

To not change is to accept her true form, but it also separated Harry Potter from Voldemort. Harry needed her own identity outside of his, but….

Harry Potter may yet be disposable.

Harry wondered if this was to be her life forever more, guessing and thinking and rethinking, plotting, calculating. No rest.

Her heart was racing, but she knew she could keep up.

Eventually, Harry rolled the vial back to him with unsure hands. She could always revisit this. When she was certain. He took it slowly, watching and waiting for her to speak. Her eyes lingered on the vial. Confused. Longing. Determined.

“We do not need to change who we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've slogged through this far, I hope you enjoyed it. And I would shamelessly love to hear what you think ;)
> 
> I was not sure what to do with Harry in the end - in this case, I feel that she is too confused to be making decisions about what body she would be more comfortable at this stage in her life. She almost views it as two separate personalities, rather than a true gender dysmorphia but if you think she would or wouldn't, then please run with whatever makes you happiest.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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